Scent
by Kat Harrcolys
Summary: He runs his right hand across her shoulder, fingers briefly touching her neck in the spot only he knows; it's exactly where she sprays her perfume. Bedelia's eyes remain steady, focused on the projection in front of her. The blue orbs do not waver; the contact must look meaningless. But contact is never meaningless with Hannibal Lecter.


A/N: I don't own Hannibal, 'cause if I did Hannibal would be X-Rated due to Hannidelia. Please read and review. Thanks! :D

Scent

He runs his right hand across her shoulder, fingers briefly touching her neck in the spot only he knows; it's exactly where she sprays her perfume. Bedelia's eyes remain steady, focused on the projection in front of her. The blue orbs do not waver; the contact must look meaningless.

But contact is never meaningless with Hannibal Lecter.

As soon as his fingers touch her skin, her body begins to heat, low in her stomach. She knows what he wants, knows that he can now smell her perfume mixed with arousal. Conversations of whimsy and self-congratulation echo in her head, but she will dispel them. Bedelia waits until the speaker takes a brief pause, reaching for the glass of water on the podium. She rises gracefully and remains seemingly unnoticed when she exits the ballroom.

Hannibal knows how easy this must be for her: living in hiding. Like a ghost, she finds it easy to float from rooms and houses and countries and continents without notice. She was beautiful, yes, but even the attention her beauty brought was of her own control. One must detect a presence to find its beauty and Bedelia had been haunted for far too long to become easily identified.

Only he can pick her out of a crowd, if only by her scent alone. It is of her own making.

A small smile graces her lips when she reaches the red carpeted floors of the hall. He has left no visible clues and yet she's following his breadcrumbs. Bedelia is no bloodhound but one recognizes the scent they created on the skin of their lover quite easily.

"Hannibal," she whispers walking into the office, clicking the door closed behind her. Here, she can say his name in public without fear of persecution. It is invigorating. He is not Henri, and a small hum vibrates in her throat when Hannibal wraps his arms around her suddenly, nuzzling "Bedelia," into her neck.

She can feel his erection pressed hard against the back of her black skirt and he wastes no time hiking up the fabric to her waist and shoving her against the wall. She moans when he roughly pushes her soaked black lace underwear aside and pushes a finger inside her. Her eyes close and she forces her already strained feet to her tiptoes so she can accommodate his fingers. Her blouse suddenly feels too tight and she's breathing heavy when his thumb brushes feather-light over her clitoris, returning to apply the pressure he knows she desires. "Stop," she pauses "teasing" she commands between breathes. She bites his lower lip when he kisses her and runs manicured fingers over the straining erection in his well-tailored pants. He groans, and tips his head back briefly before unfastening the trousers.

Bedelia shudders when his full length enters her, and she reaches instantly to grip his back for support. His large hand reaches under her left leg and holds it at his hip, her stiletto pressing into Hannibal's back. "Up" she moans, and pushes her second straining leg from the floor, hooking it around his back, as his muscular arms easily hold her light body. Hannibal locks his hands under her ass and pushes her back against the wall again, and she grunts at the contact. With the given leverage, she meets each of his pumping motions, forcing her pelvic bone into him and arching her back. Bedelia nips and sucks at his neck, eliciting an animalistic moan from his throat. She presses her hair to his chest, so he takes in her scent with every labored breath as he comes.

Bedelia's skin presses against Hannibal, and her scent permeates his cells. His body greedily laps up her smell in flared nostrils and soon he finds that her essence lingers on his own skin. That he only knows the smell of his own skin when it lingers with hers. He will remember this. Remember Pavlov's Classical Conditioning. Olfactory senses are not easily forgotten, especially when she continues to drench his skin in her arousal. His whimsical fixation on smell; he would remember what she said about whimsy. She is protective of her own life and as an unconventional psychiatrist, willing to try controversial experiments. She has made herself difficult to kill.

And if he did decide that she was disposable, she would truly take away his freedom. Through the rooms, and houses, and countries and continents of even his memory palace- her scent would haunt him.


End file.
